


Operation: First Noel

by PocketAnon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Charming - Freeform, Captain Cobra - Freeform, Captain Swan - Freeform, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Gen, Gutter Flower Captain Swan Secret Santa 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9173110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketAnon/pseuds/PocketAnon
Summary: When the residents of Storybrooke enjoy a rare period of peace over the holiday season, Henry asks his family for something he's never had - a real Christmas.  A series of holiday vignettes.  (Captain Swan/Captain Cobra/Captain Charming.  Christmas fic.  Domestic Fluff, Humor, & Smut.  Rated E purely for Chapter 4.)





	1. The Brains of the Operation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xhookswenchx (ReluctantPrincess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReluctantPrincess/gifts).



> A belated Merry Christmas to @xhookswenchx from your Gutter Flower Secret Santa! I am so sorry that I didn't have your gift ready for you by Christmas (or even New Year's - eep!), so to make it up to you, I've decided to try to give you **7 whole installments** of Captain Swan/Captain Cobra/Captain Charming goodness. This is meant to be a grab bag of fun, smut (it's _Gutter Flower_ Secret Santa, afterall), feels, and hopefully a lot of those wonderful domestic moments I hope you wanted to see. This first bit is more of an intro; subsequent days will feature longer vignettes. Be warned that this fic is still in progress, but I'm going to do my utmost to get you a new chapter each night, fingers crossed and muse willing, because darn it, you've been extraordinarily patient, and you deserve it. :) It's been lovely getting to know you better this past month, and I hope 2017 is full of good things for you!

“Can we do something this year?” Henry asks. He sits at his grandparents’ table after Sunday family dinner on a weekend in early December. The loft's old radiant heaters clank in an uncoordinated chorus as they work to ward off the chill of the Maine winter that lurks just outside, and the sun has been down for nearly four hours, leaving the streetlights below casting their dim glow through the windows that flank the space on either end. His grandfather stands and begins clearing the table, gesturing for Henry to hand his plate over.

"What's that?" To his left, Emma wipes her fingers on her napkin hurriedly before also handing over her plate to her father, her hand then dropping to rest on her growing belly.

“Well, assuming we’re not out chasing monsters or trapped in other realms or something,” Henry prefaces cautiously, “Can we celebrate Christmas this year? Like, for real?” His forehead wrinkles hopefully.

Emma’s expression softens, and she smiles warmly. “Sure, Kid. Of course we can.”

“Christmas?” To Henry's right, his grandmother, Snow, wipes spaghetti sauce off her three year-old son's face with a wet towel while he preoccupies himself by running his favorite toy car - a miniature VW bug in bright yellow - back and forth across the table.

Her mother’s tone of voice catches Emma’s attention, and she squints at the puzzled expressions around the room. “Yeah…” she chuckles, “Christmas.” She shares a confused look with Henry at the resulting silence. “You guys know about Christmas, right? Santa? Christmas trees? Decorations?” She glances back and forth between her parents and Killian, who sits beside her, her eyebrows peaking at the center of her forehead. “None of you know about Christmas?”

David shrugs, toting the dishes to the sink. “I mean, I’ve heard of it. We’ve never celebrated it though. I was under the impression it was an obscure holiday.”

Emma scrunches her nose in disbelief. “Are you kidding?” She blinks, her thoughts swirling furiously before realization hits her and her face slackens. She looks at Henry. “Regina.”

A concerned crease appears in Killian’s forehead. “What about her, love?” He reaches for Emma’s hand, lacing their fingers and subconsciously thumbing her wedding ring.

“When she created Storybrooke,” Emma says, her eyes flitting between her parents, “She didn’t give you guys Christmas. Which…” she rolls her eyes, “I guess makes sense, since she wanted everyone to be miserable.” Her expression suddenly becomes forlorn, and she spins on her son. “Oh my god, you grew up without Christmas didn’t you?”

Henry puts a hand on her forearm to try to console her. “It’s okay. I didn’t even know what I was missing.” He shrugs and crosses his arms, resting them on the table. “I just know about Christmas _now_ because Mom _did_ include it in all those false memories she gave me when you and I went to New York.”

Emma sighs with defeat. “And we’ve been too busy with crises here the last two years to really celebrate,” she says softly.

“Yeah.”

“So it’s a big deal?” Snow asks, undoing the straps on Neal’s booster seat and setting him on the floor to scamper off with the thunder of little feet.

“Um, it’s the biggest holiday of the year,” Emma laughs, incredulous. “It’s huge. A lot of people start getting ready for it a month ahead of time. Outside of Storybrooke, Christmas themed stuff is everywhere from Thanksgiving to New Year’s.” She squeezes Killian’s hand. “I can’t believe none of you has ever gotten to celebrate Christmas.” The corner of her mouth quirks upward, and she eyes her parents again. “A holiday that encourages family togetherness and goodwill and joy sort of seems right up your alley.”

David, dishtowel draped over his shoulder, plants his hands on either side of the sink and leans forward on the counter. “Well, I’m game,” he says, flashing his trademark charming smile. He shares an enthusiastic nod with Snow. “Let’s do it.”

Emma looks back at her son, eyes dancing, chin tilted appraisingly. “Think we can teach everyone how to make some real Christmas memories?”

Henry thinks. “Operation: Jingle Bells? No. Wait. Operation: First Noel,” he declares with a wide grin.

She chuckles. “Perfect.”


	2. Christmas Trees, Chocolates, & Promises You Don't Intend to Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! It's @xhookswenchx's Gutter Flower Secret Santa Week of Fic, Day 2! I was going to cut this chapter off at the first half, but then I thought, "Who doesn't need more domestic Swan Jones Family?" LOL. I hope you enjoy. I'm off to try to get Chapter 3 ready for posting by tomorrow night, but if the muse doesn't cooperate, I'll do my best to get you a Chapter 3/Chapter 4 double feature Thursday. Thanks for reading!

The following weekend, David takes Killian and Henry out in his pickup to scout for Christmas trees. No one in Storybrooke is expressly growing evergreens, but when Henry shows him pictures of what they’re looking for, David’s face lights up and he nods. “I know just the place.”

He drives them out to the west edge of the woods the next day, pulling the Ford to a stop along the side of the packed dirt road. “There’s a grove of younger fir trees,” he says, lowering the gate on his truck bed and pointing, “just through there.” He hauls out a stack of folded tarp and turns toward Killian, his breath misting. “Here.”

Killian accepts it with a curious look. “What’re these for?”

“To wrap the trees,” David explains, grunting as he reaches for the chainsaw he’s also brought along.

“You act like you’ve done this before,” Killian observes.

“No,” he says cheerfully, leading them away from the road and into the tree line, “but I can look things up on the internet well enough.” He claps Killian on the shoulder with one gloved hand. “You could try it sometime, you know.”

Killian suffers the ribbing good-naturedly. “I’ll have you know that I’m becoming quite proficient at using Google, even though I still say it’s a ridiculous name.” He doesn’t miss David and Henry swapping amused looks on either side of him as they crunch their way through the ankle-deep snow.

“At least he’s stopped calling it ‘ _The_ Google,’” David comments indulgently.

Henry grins. “Baby steps.”

Killian merely rolls his eyes but doesn’t retort. In truth, this relaxed camaraderie he’s developed with the members of Emma’s family is a one of many gifts they’ve given him that he never dreamed of having. Where once he threatened men’s lives for such teasing, he now views these little barbs from Charming, Snow, Henry, and, yes, even Regina, as a badge of honor, a sign that he’s been accepted into the fold, that he _belongs_. He's spent hundreds of years feared by those closest to him, respected but unloved, and now that he _is_ loved, albeit inexplicably, by a group of remarkable individuals who view him as an equal, rather than their superior, there's no question in his mind which he prefers.

It’s a short walk from the road to the grove David spoke of, a smattering of younger trees of various sizes scattered amongst the towering, more ancient specimens that make up the canopy. 

“Will this work?” David asks as they pause to survey the scene in front of them.

Henry ploughs ahead excitedly. “Yeah. It’s great! How’d you remember this place?”

David chuckles, following along with Killian at his heels. “Given the amount of time we’ve spent looking for people out in these woods over the last couple years, I should hope I’ve got a decent lay of the land by now.”

They locate a couple of handsome six-foot firs that garner Henry’s approval and set to work felling them and wrapping them in the tarps. It takes a bit of trial and error to get the trees wrapped tightly enough that they can carry them well, and David ends up making a trip back to the truck for some rope to use to bind them up. 

“Maybe we should have brought Mom,” Henry says as they finish wrapping the second tree. “She could have just poofed these trees home.” He holds the tarp in place while Killlian tugs the loops of rope snug around the oversized bundle and ties it off with a maritime knot. 

“Which mom?” David asks.

Henry shrugs. “Either.”

Killian climbs to his feet and dusts his hand off on his leg. “As convenient as that might be, lad, you know magic is not always the answer,” he chides. “We’re three capable men, and there’s something to be said for doing an honest day’s work with your hands. Or, you know…” He waves his hook with a sheepish grin.

“Besides,” David adds, “Isn’t this part of the Christmas experience?” He and Killian position themselves on either side of the tree and hoist it off the ground in tandem.

Henry gathers up the chainsaw and a coil of unused rope. “I guess.”

“Well, how did you and Emma get a tree before? I mean,” David clears his throat, “in your fake memories?”

Henry shrugs. “You know how fake memories are. Everything is kinda fuzzy. But there’s no local forest when you live in New York, except for Central Park, I guess, which doesn’t count. So there are farmers who grow Christmas trees out in the country and bring them into the City to sell. You just find a Christmas tree stand and get one already cut and wrapped. This,” he gestures to their surroundings, “is totally old school.” He brightens as they set off for the truck, tromping back toward the road. “Do you think we could get Tiny to start growing Christmas trees on his farm?”

David grins. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe if you ask nicely. Or your mom.”

“Aye,” Killian agrees, smirking. “The giant has always had a soft spot for Emma.”

They slide the first tree into the bed of the pickup and head back to retrieve the second, and fifteen minutes later they pile back into the cab with Henry sandwiched in the middle.

“Hey, Grandpa?” Henry asks as the truck rumbles to life. He leans over with his smart phone and shows David a picture of a leafy green plant with white berries. “Have you ever seen anything like this growing around Storybrooke?”

David takes the phone and studies the picture as he adjusts the heater, his brow wrinkling. “Sure. It’s a parasite that grows on trees. Why?”

Henry flushes excitedly. “Do you know where to find it?”

David arches an eyebrow at his grandson’s eager expression and smiles wanly, suspicion in his eyes. “Yeah, there used to be some down by the animal shelter. The berries are poisonous; we always had to keep the dogs away from them.”

“Can we go get some?”

Killian reaches over to take the phone and inspect the image with interest. “What is it, lad?”

Henry's face turns a little ruddy. “Mistletoe.”

“Another Christmas tradition?” Killian asks, clearly smelling a plot. His lips curve in a burgeoning grin, and he shoots David a look over Henry’s head.

“Well, yeah,” Henry fidgets. “You hang it, and people who get caught under it together have to kiss.”

Killian breaks into a hearty laugh. “I see. Planning to keep some handy for your Violet, are you?”

Henry shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “Maybe.” 

David beams with amusement and pulls the truck out on to the road, making a U-turn and heading for the animal shelter. “Well, we can’t go against tradition, can we?”

“Perish the thought,” Killian scoffs. His eyes glint with mischief as he gives Henry a sidelong glance. “You're not the only one who might be able to put this mistletoe to good use.”

Henry groans. “Promise me you and Mom and," he turns to look at David, "you and Grandma aren't going to be making out all the time from now until New Year's.”

Killian gives his stepson a rakish grin. "It's bad form to make promises you don't intend to keep, lad.”

 

* * *

 

 _I don’t want a lot for Christmas_  
_There is just one thing I need_  
_I don’t care about the presents_  
_Underneath the Christmas tree_  
_I just want you for my own_  
_More than you could ever know_  
_Make my wish come true_  
_All I want for Christmas is you_

Emma hums to herself as Christmas tunes fill the first floor of the house, pausing in between refrains to take a deep whiff of the aroma of milk chocolate as she stands at the stove and stirs the melting concoction in a double boiler. Her free hand absently strokes her belly, and she sways a little in time to the song, wondering if the baby can hear any strains of music or sense the excitement of the impending holiday. The little girl certainly seems to be giving Emma plenty of Christmas food cravings, and the big draw these last two weeks, in contrast to Emma’s usual penchant for the warmth of cinnamon, has been the cool bite of mint.

She sets her spatula aside and breaks away from the stove for a minute, moving over to the wood block cutting board on the counter. Taking up a stainless steel meat hammer, she proceeds to whack at a large plastic bag full of peppermints in time to the quick beat, the candies crushing with each satisfying blow.

The front door opens, a frosty gust pouring in, and Henry appears with his arms wrapped around the front end of a cut and bound tree, his cheeks blotchy pink with cold and exertion. 

“Hey, Mom!” he pants, hauling the bundle over the threshold with Killian bringing up the rear.

“Hey, guys.” Emma grins and pauses the candy carnage to watch them set the tree down along the wall just to the left of the coat rack. “I was starting to wonder where you two were.” 

Killian sighs with satisfaction as he straightens and pushes the door closed against the frigid afternoon air. “Sorry, love,” he says, flashing her an exhilarated smile. “We had to make an extra stop on the way, and then it took a while to get the first tree set up at your parents’.”

“Extra stop?”

Her husband and her son exchange a conspiratorial look.

“Just an errand,” Killian assures her smoothly. “Picked up a little something for later.”

She briefly narrows one eye at his coyness but resumes crushing the peppermints just as the song swells to a climax. _Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack..._

Killian and Henry exchange another look, clearly wary of the idea of a woman of Emma’s temperament wielding a hammer while pregnant and hormonal. As usual, Killian braves the threat first, tugging his glove off between his teeth and flashing her his most disarming smile as he wanders into the kitchen. “What on Earth are you doing, Swan?” he chuckles. 

She hums and sets her mallet aside. “Making peppermint bark,” she says simply.

Killian’s face remains pleasantly blank as he draws close. “Bark?”

Emma’s lashes flutter as he plants a quick kiss on her lips and smoothes his hand over her belly, and she hums happily. “Mm-hmm. It’s a Christmas treat,” she explains, turning back to the stove to stir the molten chocolate before it burns. “It’s crushed peppermint candy in layers of white and milk chocolate. It looks a little like tree bark. And it’s delicious.”

His blue eyes light with understanding, and he grins at her knowingly. “Ah. Craving the peppermint again today, I take it?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she says, rolling her eyes and cutting out the burner on the stove. She hastily scatters a generous portion of crushed mints over the bottom of a baking sheet lined in wax paper and then reaches for an oven mitt. “We may be out of candy canes, by the way.”

He chuckles and goes to shuck his coat. “Well, we shall just have to order more.”

“Way ahead of you.” She bites her lip, looking a little chagrined. “I may have splurged on a whole case this time. And express shipping.”

He laughs. “No worries, love. I’m fairly sure we can afford to keep you stocked in candy canes.”

“Did you ever think this is how you’d be spending all those dubloons?” she asks slyly.

Killian strides back over and gives her a one-armed hug, pressing his lips into her hair. “No. This is a far better use of them than anything I could have imagined.”

She beams, and he responds with a wink as he goes to help Henry address the tree.

Henry has the spot for the tree prepped, the location just to the left of the bay windows ready to go with a thick towel and a plastic tray and a tree disposal bag set out just as the YouTube video he’s been diligently reviewing the last couple days instructed. They double-check the tree stand and huddle together around the stump, murmuring to each other as they secure it to the base of the tree. 

“You want me to magic it over there?” she calls, watching Henry and Killian bend down on either side of the tree and prepare to move it.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Henry says, glancing up at her. “We’ve got this.”

Killian gives her son a proud smile. 

Having already done this once today at David and Snow’s, he and Henry hoist the tree upright and maneuver it into the place with only a minimal amount of awkwardness and grunting.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“To your left, lad. The other left.”

“Oh, right. Oh! Wait! Wait-wait-wait...”

“Alright?”

“Yeah. My hand almost slipped.”

“Easy does it now…”

Emma smiles to herself as she finishes pouring the chocolate onto the baking sheet and scrapes the remnants out of the bowl with a spatula while she listens to her boys work together. She reaches for her phone and snaps a few pictures covertly as they settle the tree into place and pull the wrapping away to reveal the handsome silhouette of the deep green fir. A watery smile curls at her mouth as she catches a shot of them standing next to one another and admiring their handiwork. _Killian and Henry’s first Christmas tree_ , she thinks. Our _first Christmas tree_. It’s a symbol of them as a family, this tree, the first thing next to this house that they’re all investing in and molding to make their own, and her heart swells at the thought. 

Henry leaves Killian slicing open the boxes of lights and ornaments they’d ordered the week before and pops into the kitchen to locate a pitcher with which to pour water into the Christmas tree stand. “You gonna help us decorate the tree, Mom?” he asks her, rummaging around in one of the lower cabinets. His face lights up when he finds what he’s looking for.

Emma hurriedly sprinkles another healthy dose of peppermint shards over the liquid chocolate in the baking sheet and moves it to the refrigerator, grinning at her son over her shoulder. “Of course, Kid. I can’t let you guys have all the fun.” She narrows her eyes as she counts the boxes of Christmas lights resting on the floor next to Killian. “How many lights do you two plan to put on that thing?”

“A thousand.” Henry grins innocently and sets the pitcher to fill in the sink. 

Her eyebrows peak, and she lets out a helpless laugh. “I’m pretty sure you don’t need a thousand lights for a tree that size, Henry.”

“Who said anything about ‘need’?”

Emma groans and rolls her eyes. “Promise me you guys are not going to blackout the town.”

Henry glances over his shoulder and meets Killian’s eye, and they develop matching impish grins. “I would, Mom," he says blithely, "but it's bad form to make promises you don't intend to keep.”


	3. The Total Agony of Being in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo-hoo! I made it! Chapter 3 delivered on time, as promised. Your week of holiday domestic Captain Swan continues! @xhookswenchx, you mentioned wanting to see our babies arguing over stuff. You got it. ;) I hope you enjoy. Thanks to everyone for reading. I look forward to your comments as always.

Emma stands on the sidewalk, the air biting at her skin and wearing at her patience while she listens to her husband and her son coming up with a game plan to hang the dozens of feet of icicle lights they’ve purchased to adorn their house. She’s been here almost ten minutes, having initially ventured outside to bring them a thermos of hot chocolate, but delaying her return to the house after realizing that they intend to dress, not only on the roof overlying the porch, but _every_ section of roof up to the third floor turret. It’s a far more ambitious undertaking, and it strikes her as requiring the aid of a cherry picker. Or a friendly fairy. And judging by their talk, they plan on employing neither.

She hovers behind them as they confer and gesture and nod enthusiastically about the best places on the roof to stand and whether it’s better to climb up with a ladder or duck out through some of the upper windows. Emma folds her arms across her chest, as much out of skepticism as a desire to stay warm, and narrows her eyes when Henry starts suggesting they build a rig with a two-by-four and a coat hanger to be able to reach the second floor eaves that wrap around the east side of the house. “Okay. No,” she finally interjects. “No.”

Both men crane their heads around to look at her, expressions not unlike the ones they wore that time she caught them eating the pie she was planning to bring to Sunday family dinner.

“What?” Henry asks cautiously.

“No, you are not going to try to climb on top of the roof like that, much less with some MacGuyvered contraption,” she says, waving one mittened hand abstractly.

“I don’t know what that last bit means, Swan, but you needn’t worry. The lad’s not going up on the roof,” Killian replies in a perfectly sensible tone. “I am.”

Emma blinks owlishly at him. “Because that’s a much better idea?” she challenges with an incredulous little laugh.

He gives a minute shake of his head and waves off her concerns. “I’ll be fine, love.”

“Yes, you will, because you’re not doing it.”

He arcs an eyebrow at her, annoyance finally starting to appear in his blue eyes. “I’m no stranger to climbing, you know,” he points out.

“Rigging, yes. Beanstalks, yes. Steep, Victorian-style rooflines, no,” she retorts, her lips pressed into a line.

He throws another glance up at the dark gray asphalt shingles and shrugs. “It won’t be that bad.”

She snorts. “Famous last words,” she says flatly. “You know, just because Zeus resurrected you once doesn’t mean he’ll do it again.”

“It’s not that steep,” he argues.

“It’s a 45-degree incline!”

He smirks, his stupidly handsome face now a means to irritate her. “You’ll catch me if I fall.”

“Or I could just magic the lights up there in five seconds and save you the embarrassment,” she answers, her voice on the edge of a snap.

Killian grumbles. “I’m not going to embarrass myself.”

“You’re going to end up on the front page of the _Mirror_. ‘Legendary 300 Year-Old Pirate Breaks Back Hanging Christmas Lights.’ Regina would never let you hear the end of it.”

Henry snickers.

Killian shoots his co-conspirator an indignant look at his betrayal.

Emma huffs. “This is ridiculous. It’s freezing out here.” She spins on her heel and heads inside, waving her hand without a look back. The lights vanish from the boxes sitting at Henry’s feet and appear along the roofline, neatly hanging from the eaves on all three floors and swaying gently in the wind.

 

* * *

 

Killian hangs his head as Emma marches across the porch and goes into the house, shutting the front door a little louder than necessary behind her.

“So much for that,” Henry says resignedly. He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text before bending down to gather the empty light boxes.

“Your mother is a bloody stubborn woman,” Killian grouses, reaching down to help load the rest of the boxes into Henry’s arms and then snagging the handle of the thermos with his hook.

The boy laughs. “And that’s news?”

A wry smile curls at the corner of Killian’s mouth. “Hardly.” He sighs. “This is what happens when you marry a bloody force of nature.”

“You get pretty Christmas lights?” Henry asks, grinning. He straightens and admires Emma’s work. “They do look really good.”

“Aye.”

They head around the side of the house in order to stow the boxes in the garage. 

“She might have been right, you know,” Henry hazards, setting the stack on the workbench.

Killian gives him a rueful side-eye, waiting for him to come back outside before swinging the doors shut. “I know.”

Henry’s phone chimes as they climb the steps to the side entrance, and he checks it, tapping a return message. “Well, since we’re done early, I’m gonna go hang with Violet.” He pauses, tucking the phone back into his coat pocket. “Um, wait here a minute.” Killian regards him curiously as he hustles inside and reappears with his backpack a minute later. He tugs the zipper open and retrieves the mistletoe, pulling one of the stems free and handing it over. “You might need this.”

Killian chuckles and pockets the tiny sprig. “You’re a good man, Henry.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Henry raises his eyebrows in earnest. “Don’t abuse it,” he says gruffly.

Killian nods with a grin.

He finds Emma splayed out across the sofa watching a movie he doesn’t recognize. He hangs his coat up and approaches cautiously, scratching behind his ear. As he draws close, he notes a generous plateful of peppermint bark balanced on her baby bump and a half-eaten piece between her fingers, some of it wedged adorably in her cheek. 

They’ve had a number of rows since he moved in over a year ago – arguments over which way to hang the toilet paper on the roll, how long to let dirty dishes sit in the sink, what Henry’s curfew should be and whether he should be allowed to have Violet up to his room – but Killian is grateful that their dust-ups are never very big. To be fair, after fighting about her extreme secrecy while a Dark One and her decision to turn _him_ into a Dark One to save his life and whether he should return from the Underworld, everything else rather pales in comparison. In a strange way, they’re fortunate in that respect – they have the advantage of perspective, the memories of having lost and found one another again, of having faced and suffered death, of having to forgive and be forgiven for much more serious hurts, and after all their adventures, the ability to just live day-to-day with one another is something they both cherish too much to let little annoyances drive a rift between them.

Killian catches her eye and gives her a soft expression. “May I?”

Emma’s face remains neutral, but she accepts his outstretched hand and allows him to pull her upright enough that he can wedge himself between her and the arm of the sofa, her weight falling softly and comfortingly against his side as he drapes his elbow over the seatback.

He studies the scene on the television, watching a little boy describe being in love to his father as “total agony.” Killian’s mouth forms a little smile at the sentiment. “What are we watching?”

“ _Love Actually_ ,” Emma replies, biting off another small piece of bark. “It’s a Christmas movie.”

“A movie about Christmas?”

She hums. “It’s more about love,” she says, “and how sometimes it’s complicated,” she sighs, “and sometimes it isn’t.”

He chuckles. “Indeed.” He reaches up and tentatively combs his fingertips through her hair, relaxing when some of the tension disappears from her shoulders. 

They watch as a charming brown-haired man and woman engage in a sweet but flirtatious conversation. The woman exits, and the man’s face falls, conflicted and despondent over how much he fancies her. 

Killian leans his head nearer to Emma's. “The lights look very nice,” he murmurs.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye before her gaze returns to the television. She licks her lips. “Thank you.”

“You did it much better than I could have.”

She chuffs. “You could have fallen.”

He makes a show of nodding his head, his face sincere. “Aye.” Emma looks at him, and he smiles apologetically. “Sometimes I still love a challenge.”

Her eyes pinch minutely, warming with fondness and understanding as she remembers the first time he said such a thing to her.

He drapes his arm over her shoulders and pulls her close, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and dropping a kiss on her crown. “I also enjoy spending time with Henry.”

Emma tenses for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take that away from you.”

He chuckles. “It’s alright, Swan. I’m sure we’ll come up with some other ill-conceived caper soon enough.” He smiles, aware, even without looking, that she’s rolling her eyes.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, snuggling closer.

His chest vibrates with a low, happy sound. “And you love me for it.”

She nods against him.

“Speaking of which.” 

Emma raises her head to watch as Killian pulls his arm away and reaches into the chest pocket of his waistcoat to pull out the little bit of mistletoe. He grins and holds it above their heads, giving it a little shake and enjoying the way her eyes widen and a rosy flush blossoms on her cheeks. 

She sets her plate aside, and Killian’s smile widens slowly and his eyes falls closed when she scoots up a little to press her mouth sweetly to his. 

Her dimples are on full display as she pulls back a fraction. “Where did you find mistletoe?” she asks, amused.

“In the woods,” he answers, bumping her nose with his, “That extra stop we made on our way back with the trees. Quite the fascinating Christmas tradition.” 

He leans forward and kisses her again, and she giggles, acquiescing to part her lips and let him sweep her mouth with his tongue. Her fingers wind into the short tendrils at the back of his neck as the sound of their increasingly labored breathing obscures whatever is happening on the television. She gives a needy whine, and he growls, pulling her over so she lies half in his lap, pressed to his chest with her back to the movie.

Emma breaks away suddenly, panting. “Where’s Henry?”

“He went to see Violet.” Killian lowers his head to chase her mouth, but she withdraws a little further.

“Wait. Does he have mistletoe, too?” Her brow wrinkles with panic.

Killian flops his head back onto the cushion. “It’s not as though he’s never kissed the girl, Swan.”

“But…”

He lifts an eyebrow and looks down at her archly. “Does mistletoe dictate more than kissing? Because if it does, I have been sorely misinformed.”

“No!” She chortles in spite of herself. “No.”

“Then he’ll behave. Or Sir Morgan will run him through with his sword.” Killian grins at the laughter in his wife’s eyes and shifts his arms to pull her closer. “Now, since we’re alone, is there a chance that _I_ could see more than kissing?”

“Hmph.” Emma teases her lips against his. “Maybe.”


	4. The Cookie Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 of @xhookswenchx's Gutter Flower Secret Santa gift fic! I couldn't do a Gutter Flower gift and not have it include some smut. Not to mention the fact that I haven't written anything really spicy since _Scar Tissue_ , and I needed to stretch those muscles, so to speak. LOL. Hope you enjoy. As I have been all week, I'll do my best to get Chapter 5 out tomorrow, but I'm a little behind on that one and work-related things are calling. Thanks so much to everyone for reading and commenting/tagging as always!
> 
> Also, special thanks to @i-know-how-you-kiss for helping to reassure me when I started to question my 12 year-old sense of humor. You're the best, Liz.

Killian finds Emma in the kitchen on her Friday afternoon off, more upbeat songs about Christmas playing and the heady smell of baked treats in the air. Her back is turned to him as she works at the kitchen counter, ponytail swaying and bobbing with a life of its own as she gently rocks in time to the beat. She peeks at him out of the corner of her eye, a smile curving her mouth. “Hey.”

“Hello, love.” He grins. 

As she rotates slightly, his eyes fall to the still-subtle curve of her belly, and his face blooms into an involuntary smile as he approaches, absently removing his hook and setting it on the table with the hollow thunk of metal on wood. “Something smells bloody brilliant.” He shrugs off his coat and drapes it over the nearest chair before clicking his hook back into place and wandering to her side.

“Christmas cookies,” she hums, thick lashes fluttering as his lips find the apple of her cheek. “For the dinner at my parents’ tomorrow.” Emma gestures at a baking sheet full of star-shaped cookies on the counter in front of him, half of which are neatly covered in white icing. She picks up an unadorned cookie and draws his attention to the small metal spatula she wields in her other hand, dipping it into a large bowl of icing and waffling it carefully across the cookie’s surface in order to try to cover every square inch. 

Her brow wrinkles indignantly as Killian lifts an unfrosted cookie from the sheet and takes a bite. “Hey!”

He grins, unrepentant, and gives a happy hum as he swallows the chewy morsel. “Delicious.”

Emma rolls her eyes and swipes her spatula through the bowl of icing again. “If you’re going to pirate my cookies, at least try them with icing the way nature intended,” she says, reaching across. He obliges her by holding what remains of his cookie still so she can smear the creamy confection all over the top, catching the tips of his fingers in the process, and she gestures resignedly when she finishes. “As you were.”

Blue eyes twinkling, he pops the rest of the cookie in his mouth in one go, cheeks bulging as he chews.

She chuckles at his ridiculousness. “Better?” She arches an eyebrow.

Killian nods emphatically, savoring the extra sweetness before he swallows. “Bloody brilliant,” he says with a wink. He reaches out and wraps his left arm around her hip to turn her toward him. “My compliments to the chef.”

Emma smiles as he closes the distance between them, inhaling deeply when his lips find hers. He grins. She tastes like peppermint-laced heaven. He leisurely explores her mouth, and she mewls in that way that tells him she wants this to go past innocent kiss territory, the sound going straight to his groin. Killian growls in response. One amazing, unanticipated effect of Emma’s pregnancy, especially these last few weeks, has been a frankly ravenous desire for him at pretty much all times of day, and bloody hell, has he been happy – ecstatic, really – to accommodate her when she’s accosted him in the shower or gotten amorous on the sofa or even – and especially – that day he was doing maintenance on the Jolly and she poofed over during her lunch hour in order to have him three times in his old quarters before straightening herself up, kissing his awestruck face, and poofing back to the Sheriff’s station.

He cups the side of her neck and kisses her deeper, feeling her heart rate quickening as he plunders her mouth, and she moans, throwing her arms around his neck and sinking her fingers into his hair. “Wanna take this upstairs?” she breathes in between kisses, giggling as he hums his affirmative into her mouth. He means to sweep her into his arms and haul her away, but even with his eyes closed he can sense the swirl of magical white smoke that immediately engulfs them, and a quick peek a moment later confirms that she’s transported them to their bedroom. He chuckles. Patience has never been his Emma’s strong suit, especially not lately. Not that he’s complaining.

They break apart for moment to yank her baggy red sweater up over her head, and a flash of white catches his eye. Killian gives a little laugh when he realizes that his fingers have trailed a few sugary smears down side of her neck. He draws her close and gently runs his thumb along the angle of her jaw. “I seem to have made a bit of a mess here with the icing, love,” he says, ducking his head down with a devilish smile, “Allow me.” 

He plies her flesh with his mouth, attacking just above her collarbone and laving his way up toward her ear, her skin a mixture of sweet icing and salty sweat. Breathy gasps escape her, her fingers smoothing over his shoulders and lightly clawing at the skin between his shoulder blades, and she palpably shivers when he pauses a moment to suck on her pulse.

Her hands fly unseeing to release the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt before undoing his belt with frightening efficiency, and she hums with satisfaction. They joked once about how much easier it would be for her to just magic their clothes off, but that was when she’d admitted that she actually enjoys this part sometimes – the part where she gets to pull apart the buttons and buckles that hold him together and peel back the layers, exposing him in a way that is for her eyes only. Her possessiveness thrills him endlessly; he relishes belonging to her, relishes being the lucky fool that she, the most glorious creature under the sun, chose to be her partner.

He releases her long enough to unfasten his brace and hang it, hook attached, on the looped leather strap he keeps tied to one bedpost just before she pounces again, sealing her lips over his and yanking his shirt tails free in order to shove the open button-down and waistcoat off his shoulders. Her fingers rake down his chest, and her tongue curls around his aggressively as she allows him to back her up toward the bed, virtually purring when he snakes his left arm tightly around her middle and draws her flush with him so she can feel the firmness of him pressed right up against her center. 

Killian lowers her to perch on the edge of the mattress, and she hastily slips her nimble fingers beneath his waistband and tugs both his pants and boxer briefs off in one downward motion. Before he knows it, he’s in her hand, her lips teasing his tip, and his head falls backward with a groan as she proceeds to have her way with him. _Oh, bloody hell._

If her mouth had been heaven before, he has no words for it now, for the way she uses it to surround him with sinfully wet heat and a dancing tongue that swirls and strokes him until he’s all but gone mad with want. He watches her through heavy-lidded eyes, desperation on his features, and feels himself simultaneously tensing and unraveling at the sight of at her long closed lashes and her hollowed cheeks and the way his fingers sink into her golden hair along the back of her head near her ponytail, and when he gulps her name like a prayer, she smirks and hums delectably and he goes rocketing over the edge with a suppressed roar.

He’s vaguely aware of her sucking him clean and chuckling as she releases him. She peels off her panties and leggings and crawls backward on the bed, and it’s all he can do not to topple over, bracing himself on the mattress with his hand while he finishes kicking off his socks and shoes and stumbles, knock-kneed, out of the pants bunched around his calves. Emma giggles as she watches, and he attempts a chiding smile as he joins her near their headboard.

“It’s bad form, love, laughing at a man you’ve just incapacitated like that.”

She arches an eyebrow smugly. “And here I thought you’d consider what I just did _good_ form.”

He rumbles with satisfaction, angling his body and lowering himself down on his side in order to hover over her without burdening her under his weight. “Oh that part was certainly good form,” he smirks, seizing her lips once again. “Great form,” he mutters. “Spectacular form.”

Emma chuckles quietly into his mouth, and he cradles her face, his thumb drifting across the swell of her dimpled cheek. Her laughter gives way to a rapturous sigh when his hand drifts down her throat to cup her breast, delicately tweaking her nipple through her black lace bra until it stiffens. His fingers wander further south then, skimming across the gentle rise of her once-flat stomach toward her mound and plunging beneath the lacey edge of her panties. 

She suddenly snorts and begins to laugh again, and he pulls back reflexively, a curious grin on his face. “Swan?”

Emma continues to giggle, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Sorry,” she manages. “I just…” She chortles. “You’re about to pirate my cookies.” She erupts into full-fledged laughter that makes her shoulders shake.

Killian’s face splits into a wide smile, and he snickers, his complexion going red. “Is that what we're calling it now?” he asks, an amused glint in his eye. 

She quiets as he drifts his calloused fingertips lightly down her belly again, gooseflesh rising in their wake, and he hums with approval when they seek her core and he finds her slick and ready. The little gasp his touch elicits is music to his ears, and Killian watches her expression transform to one of pure bliss as he strokes her deftly. 

Emma sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes falling closed as she focuses on her pleasure, her back arching sinuously. He works on her a while more before breaking away to sear a path of kisses down her body, ridding her of her underwear and settling his shoulders between her thighs. He flashes her a daring smile before he bows his head and tastes her, savoring the primitive moan that rips from her throat. 

She pants out a quiet curse, her brow furrowed, and one of her hands slides into his hair and urges him on with a gentle tug. Killian feels himself growing hard again at this little show of aggression. They both know what she likes, but he never tires of her asking for, of her demanding what she needs from him. Emma’s cries grow louder and more strident as he continues to worship her insistently with his lips and tongue, her thighs beginning to twitch as the pressure builds and she crests higher. “Please…”

She gives a ragged shudder, and he takes his cue to insert two fingers into her, and when she whines his name, he hums acknowledgment, pistoning deep inside her past his ring and finally shattering her control with a curl of his fingers. Emma falls apart around him, collapsing back on the bed, her breath coming in stuttering gasps, and he watches her ecstasy with boundless fascination as he slows his movements and helps her ride it out as long, or perhaps a little longer, than she can bear. 

Her chest is heaving when he withdraws at last, and he smirks like a cad, crawling back up her side to kiss her soundly and let her taste herself on his lips. “So, darling, how do you feel about cookie piracy now?” he says smugly, brushing his nose against hers.

Emma laughs and takes long moment to catch her breath before she abruptly rolls, shoving him on is back and climbing aboard. She straightens and pulls what’s left of her disheveled ponytail loose, looking like a wanton angel as she shakes her hair free and finger-combs it away from her face. Her bra is next to go, and Killian gazes up at her raptly. Nowhere is he happier than this, at her complete mercy, and his hand and stump settle on her hips as she lowers herself down on him with excruciating slowness and another inviting shudder. Killian groans at the sensation of being enveloped by her yet again, and she answers with a wicked smile, planting her hands on his chest and rolling her hips deliciously in order to pull a second groan from him.

“Yo ho ho.”


	5. On Being Awesome at Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, @xhookswenchx, Day 5 is coming to you a tad late, but here it is, 1.6k of pure exhaustion-driven silliness. Seriously. There is really no substance to this whatsoever. But then, such can be said for many of the treats we consume during the holidays. :) Apologies for any typos. Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

“Merry Christmas Eve!”

Emma gapes and then laughs when her father opens the door to the loft wearing a Santa hat and a cheerful grin. “Very nice, Dad.”

He beams and steps back to let her, Killian, and Henry in. “Your mom thought it would be fun,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen.

Emma looks to see her mother standing at the sink in a pretty silvery cardigan with reindeer antlers perched adorably in her hair. Snow cocks her head playfully, her expression sunny. “Just getting into the spirit,” she tells them. “You weren’t kidding when you said Christmas was a big deal. The amount of neat Christmas-themed stuff we found on the internet is insane.”

“Yeeeah, well, it’s pretty big business,” Emma chuckles, handing David her cookie platter before Killian relieves her of her long wool coat. Her pregnant nose immediately picks up on the savory aromas wafting through the air. “Smells great.”

“Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, stuffing, and cranberry sauce as requested,” Snow announces, reading off a hand-written list that was sitting on the counter near her.

Henry, still in his coat and with a wolfish grin on his face, is already standing by the stovetop with his head almost directly over the pan of gravy that simmers merrily there. “Awesome.”

Emma looks impressed. “Wow, you really went all out.”

Her mother shrugs. “Hey, we promised to help give you guys a real Christmas, and we may not be Granny, but your father and I know our way around a kitchen.”

“Well, we brought Christmas cookies and pecan pie, since we know how you feel about apple,” Henry says proudly, setting his foil-wrapped dish to one side on the counter.

Snow arches an eyebrow at him. “A whole pie or half a pie?” she asks teasingly.

He gives a harassed sigh and rolls his eyes. “Come on, that was three months ago.”

“Just checking.”

Emma sends Henry back down to the Bug to get the gifts they brought for her parents and Neal, and she busies herself with helping Snow in the kitchen while David and Killian attempt to keep her energetic little brother in check as he chases his favorite rubber ball around the loft.

“What time is Regina coming?” Emma asks.

Snow glances at the clock. “She should be here any minute.” 

Emma fixes her mother with a questioning sidelong look while finishing the mashed potatoes with a generous splash of heavy cream. “How does she feel about this whole Christmas thing?” 

Snow pours the gravy through a strainer and smiles patiently. “Well, you know Regina. She’ll join in with the right encouragement, but she’s rarely the one to lead the celebration.”

“No, I meant since she’s the one who kind of… stole Christmas. Before.”

Her mother gives a little laugh. “You know she doesn’t actually have anything against Christmas, right? She’s just like the rest of us – it’s new to her,” she points out, pushing the last bits of gravy around the bottom of the strainer. “I mean, clearly she understands it's supposed to be fun, or else she wouldn't have withheld it from us and then given it back to Henry later. She gets it. I don't expect her to show up wearing bells, but I’m sure she’s as open to enjoying it as we are.”

Emma grins wryly. “Well, if she isn’t, we can always spike her eggnog.”

Snow laughs. “What?”

“Eggnog. It’s a drink.” Emma tilts her head thoughtfully and goes to investigate the contents of the refrigerator.

“Is that like grog?”

“Is what like grog?” Killian asks interestedly, coming over to fish Neal’s ball out of the corner. He rolls it back across the floor toward the living room where Neal and David are now distracted watching Henry tuck presents beneath the Christmas tree.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Mention grog and a pirate appears,” she says, smirking at him affectionately.

He shrugs amiably and props his elbow up on the breakfast bar. “I am what I am, Swan. Now, what about grog?”

“Not grog. _Nog_. Egg _nog_ ,” Emma chuckles, pulling a jug of whole milk out of the refrigerator and setting it next to the cream before reaching for the eggs. “It’s something people drink at Christmas. It’s egg, sugar, milk, cream, and a little nutmeg. I’ll show you. You can spike it with rum or bourbon or whatever, especially at Christmas parties where the guests are unsuspecting. Makes for interesting stories.”

“A Christmas tradition involving rum, and I wasn’t told until now?” Killian tsks and angles his head at her reproachfully. 

Emma grins, her lashes shielding her eyes as she glances down to locate her parents’ handheld mixer under the counter. “Admittedly, an oversight.”

He snorts. “I should say so.”

Regina arrives by the time Emma finishes whipping the eggnog mixture together. Per Snow’s prediction, Henry’s other mother appears to be in good spirits and doesn’t have a hint of bah humbug about her. The corner of Emma’s mouth quirks as she watches the woman cuddle Neal on her lap and entertain him by conjuring little dancing lights in the palm of her hand. She hasn’t doubted Regina’s ability to find redemption for a long time, but there’s still something heart-warming about seeing the woman who was once the Evil Queen now joining her family to celebrate a holiday like Christmas. Honestly, if Emma thinks about it, tales like Regina’s and Killian’s, stories about lost souls consumed by sadness and resentment who, through the love and forgiveness of others, found their good hearts and new beginnings – those are some of the most Christmas-y stories of all.

The eggnog chills in the refrigerator while they sit down to dinner, pushing another table end-to-end with her parents’ regular one in order to make room for all seven of them and the impressive spread. Everyone has too much to eat; they all do a double-take when even Henry slumps back in his chair and claims he’s so full he can’t move.

He does move, eventually, as do the rest of them, when Neal's bedtime rolls around. Emma's little brother hurries about giving goodnight hugs and kisses to all assembled before Snow shuttles him up the stairs. The rest of the party migrates to the kitchen. Henry joins Killian and David in clean-up duty, Regina seats herself at the breakfast bar, and Emma hauls the eggnog out and begins to ladle it into mugs. 

Regina lifts the mug Emma hands her and studies the cold white concoction dashed with nutmeg inside. “What is it?”

“Eggnog,” Emma explains. “It’s a Christmas tradition.”

Killian sips from his mug tentatively and furrows his brow as he licks a trace off the bottom edge of his moustache. “It goes down well enough, love,” he comments, setting it on the counter and reaching for his flask, “But I agree it could use a little something.”

David, hands tied up in the sink, agrees to a little splash of liquor in his cup as well, and Killian turns next to Regina, brows raised. “Your Majesty?"

Regina eyes her eggnog again, unconvinced of its merits, before holding it out to him and nodding. “What the hell.”

Killian chuckles and pours her a healthy dose. He tucks his flask away, retrieving his cup and clinking it against hers. “Cheers.”

Regina’s forehead wrinkles as she drinks, and she swirls some eggnog around her mouth like a sommelier before swallowing. Her frown disappears, and she pooches her lower lip and shrugs. “Well, what do you know? I guess rum is good for something after all.”

Killian laughs and points at her approvingly, cup in hand. “Ah, you see? There may be hope for you yet.”

While they wait for the pie to re-warm and for their stomachs to recover enough to eat it, Henry convinces them to play a few rounds of dice, using sugar-coated peanuts to wager. Regina initially sniffs at the idea of participating in such a boorish activity, but she begrudgingly allows her son to teach her how to play. Once she shoots her first game, however, her competitive nature takes over and she proves to be quite aggressive, especially when pitted against Killian, who is, naturally, the most experienced player in the room. Her enthusiasm only grows after her second cup of eggnog, her cheeks becoming delightfully rosy and her laugh a little louder, and Emma and Killian share amused looks when she goads them into playing one last game. 

“Why, Regina,” Killian quips, “Who knew you’d make such delightful company with a few shots of rum in you?”

“Shut up, Pirate, and place your bet.”

It’s a great night overall, but the highlight comes near the end, after they consume the pie, when Killian gets up to take the dirty plates to the kitchen and David, who’s preparing to wash more dishes, meets him halfway. 

Regina, her dark eyes still shining and a little glassy, suddenly cackles and points. “Hook is under the mistletoe,” she sing-songs.

Killian looks up to see David’s share of the plant hanging from the wooden beam above them. He glances at the Prince and rolls his eyes as he begins to turn back to Regina. “Surely, you don’t expect me to—” His words are cut off when David, who’s also enjoyed a couple servings of eggnog, merely plants a big smacking kiss on his cheek and walks back to the kitchen sink as if nothing ever happened.

Regina snickers. Snow titters behind her hand. Emma laughs until tears sting her eyes and her diaphragm hurts and the baby begins to kick. And Henry looks around at their family with a grin almost wider than his face and declares that for people who have never done Christmas before, they’re pretty awesome at it.


	6. Tidings of Great Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at Day 6, @xhookswenchx! This is actually the vignette that I first wrote for you more than a month ago when I initially started spit-balling ideas for your Secret Santa gift, and it's my personal favorite of the set and kind of the thing around which everything else evolved. If you've read any of my other work, you may have noticed know how much I love writing the quiet moments, and that's exactly what this is. I really hope you enjoy it. I'll try to have a little something to wrap up this fic for you by tomorrow!

The call of her bladder rouses Emma from a deep slumber, and she pries her eyes open with mild irritation, staring forward into the dark of the bedroom and heaving a mental sigh. _Again?_ She pushes back the covers with one arm and pauses when she realizes that she’s alone in bed. Sitting up, she swivels her head to throw a quizzical look back at Killian’s undisturbed pillow before pushing herself to her feet. _Toilet first._

The floor is cold against her skin, first the cool wood of the bedroom, then the frigid tile in the bathroom, but she bears it as she shuffles along, too sleepy to bother with socks. Emma huffs and pats her belly. Five more months of this (and much more) to go. She sighs, but reminds herself that she’s survived a pregnancy before under far less favorable circumstances. For that matter, she’s literally been to Hell and back. She’s got this.

When she finishes in the bathroom, she throws a robe over her flannel pajamas and pads downstairs. She’d retired shortly after getting home from Christmas dinner at her parents’ and left Killian by the fire reading Charles Dickens (part of what Henry refers to as his Christmas Crash Course). But that was several hours ago, and Killian has usually come to bed by this time of night. She wonders if he’s fallen asleep mid-sentence on the sofa again.

The ground floor of their house is illuminated by the flicker of the fire that still burns in the hearth and by the almost overwhelming glow of the legion of white Christmas lights Killian and Henry have succeeded in draping on every square inch of the handsome tree near the front window.

     _“Guys, I’m serious. If you put any more lights on that thing, astronauts will be able to see it from space.”_  
     _“Sorry, love, who will be able to see it from where?”_  
     _“…Zeus. Zeus will be able to see it from Olympus.”_  
     _“I’m fairly certain Zeus can see everything anyway, Swan.”_  


The stair creaks beneath her feet, and when she reaches the bottom and turns the corner, she sees Killian still sitting on the sofa where she left him, but his head and shoulders are craned around to look at her. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, looking concerned.

She gives a little smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” she murmurs, coming around the side of the sofa to settle herself next to him. She perches her feet on the edge of the coffee table. “I had to go the bathroom.”

“Ah.” He nods knowingly, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His smile widens further as Emma sighs blissfully and wiggles her toes a little, enjoying the way the warmth of the fire licks at them. “Are your feet cold, love?”

“Better now,” she says, shifting down in her seat and moving to lean up against him.

“Hold that thought,” he tells her, gently pulling away and heaving himself off the sofa. Emma’s eyebrows pinch upward as he hurries up the stairs. A minute later he returns with a pair of her favorite gray woolen socks in his hand.

Her expression turns dopey as he sits on the edge of the sofa cushion and drops one sock on his lap, reaching forward with the other. Part of her wants to sit up and insist she can put on her own socks (she’s not exactly big yet), but she remains rooted in place, fascinated and touched as she watches him work. He loops the cuff of the sock around her big toe and gently pulls so that the cuff opens up wide enough to allow him to finesse it over the rest of her toes and onto her foot. He hums tunelessly as he works, and she grins. She’s seen him put his own socks on like this countless times, but seeing him do it for her, knowing how content he is to pamper her in little ways like this, makes her heart feel fit to burst. He tugs here and there at the tight knit until the sock is in place and then proceeds to help her with its mate. “There we are,” he declares with satisfaction, sitting back and throwing his left arm around her shoulders.

 _Killian Jones, the fearsome Captain Hook, vanquisher of sea monsters and Underworld denizens and cold toes._ “Thank you.” She chuckles and burrows deep into his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

He turns his head, inhaling the scent of her hair, and plants a kiss on her head. “Of course.”

Emma’s eyes are half-lidded and dreamy as she stares into the dancing flames. “So why are you still awake? Staying up for Santa?” she teases.

She can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you suppose I should? He’s set to invade our home, after all,” Killian muses. “Perhaps I should fetch my cutlass. Inspire him to use the front door like a normal person.”

Laughter bubbles up in her chest at the idea of coming downstairs in the morning to find Killian has captured Santa Claus. The mental image of her husband grimly standing guard with his sword while the man in the red suit sits properly bound and gagged in an armchair is almost too much. “Pretty sure that gets you on the naughty list,” she comments when she catches her breath.

Killian waggles his eyebrows. “So does what we did to get you pregnant, Swan,” he murmurs into her ear. “I don’t recall you complaining.”

She can feel him smile against her as she flushes to the roots of her hair, a myriad of vivid memories flooding back and setting her skin tingling. She swats his arm half-heartedly but doesn’t try to hide her exhilarated smile. He rumbles low in his chest, and she turns her head to indulge him in a slow, sultry kiss. “Well, it _was_ pretty fun,” she mutters against his mouth, her teeth dragging across his lower lip, her lashes dusky against her cheeks.

He pulls back and arches an eyebrow. “‘Pretty fun’?” he repeats with mock indignance. “May I remind you that you seriously started considering using silencing magic after that time we—”

She gives a throaty giggle and cuts him off by yanking his shirt collar forward until his lips are pressed against hers. Her tongue grazes his in invitation, and Killian answers without hesitation, plunging forth and kissing her hot and deep in the way they both know disorients her and makes her toes curl inside her socks. His lips slant over hers aggressively, and he steals her breath, reaching up to cup her face with his hand and drag his thumb across her cheek, hunger and defiance and unending devotion in the way he kisses. A tiny mewl escapes her, and shivers run down her spine when he responds with a gratified hum, clearly pleased at having successfully reminded her of all the ways he has to make her want. 

“Fine,” she acquiesces breathlessly when they surface for air. “Um… Miraculous? Phenomenal?”

Killian grunts. “That’s more like it.”

Emma laughs quietly at the smug grin on his face and snuggles up against him once again. Her eyes fall to her stomach suddenly, and she smirks. “Oops. We might have woken someone up.”

“Oh?” His face lights eagerly. “You can feel her?”

Emma bites her lip at her little slip-up. Their baby started kicking only a few days ago, but she’d been hoping to reveal it to him Christmas morning as an extra gift. One look at his excited expression now, though, and all thoughts of waiting any longer are easily forgotten. She nods almost shyly and reaches for his hand, settling it on her belly and watching his face expectantly. They wait for a long moment, all but holding their breath, until the baby abruptly kicks again.

An awed smile blooms on Killian’s face, and he glances up at her with wonder. “There. That’s… that’s her?”

Emma folds her lips, blinking rapidly and nodding. 

He looks back down at her belly and chuckles low when the baby issues another kick. “Hello, my love,” he croons, his voice sounding thick. “Did your mum and I wake you?” 

They lapse into contented quiet while Killian continues to feel the baby move, slowly gliding his hand back and forth over Emma’s midsection in a loving caress. It makes her want to cry sometimes when he’s like this – so exquisitely, almost impossibly gentle – the man who was so angry for so long, who was one of the most feared pirates to ride the waves, who nearly destroyed all the Dark Ones forever, and who withstood torture at the hands of a god and still thumbed his nose at him. The fact that he can be so bold and unbreakable one moment and so soft and affectionate and heart-breakingly grateful the next – the range of this man, the depth of him, just takes her breath away.

“I was thinking about you, you know.” His quiet confession breaks the silence. “Just now before you and your mum came down. Did you know? It’s Christmas.” A delicate smile curves his lips, and he glances up at the narrow mantle from which hang three full-sized stockings labeled “Killian”, “Emma”, and “Henry” and a much smaller knitted stocking shaped like a baby bootie, courtesy of Granny. “It’s my first Christmas,” he continues thoughtfully, “which is fitting, because your mum and Henry tell me part of celebrating Christmas is spending time with your family, and this…” he intertwines his fingers with Emma’s, grinning softly at the now-familiar click of his ring against hers, “this is the first winter in a very, very long time that I can really say that I have one.”

Emma sniffles, and he catches her eye and gives her a watery smile.

“I've also read that that this holiday celebrates the birth of a child,” he says, his voice turning even heavier with emotion, “a baby that, I gather, gave a lot of the world hope, and that…” he pauses, “that seems fitting too.”

A giant tear rolls down Emma’s face, and she’s a hair’s width from blubbering as she takes in the redness lining his eyes and the tender, emotional look his face. He knows she’s full of hormones right now, and yet here he is, saying these perfect words to their unborn child on Christmas Eve, and if she didn’t love him with every fiber of her being she’d punch him so hard right now for making her cry. _Jerk._

Killian stops talking, as though he knows she’s barely keeping it together (or perhaps because he is too). He drags his ringed thumb back and forth along the side of her pinky absently, falling back into unspoken thoughts, his gaze fixed on their hands while the firelight frolics with the shadows around them. 

They both smile when they feel another kick, and Emma nuzzles his neck with her forehead. “We love you, you know,” she whispers to him.

He takes a ragged breath. “Aye, I know.”

Emma squeezes his hand. “Come to bed?”

He turns his head and places another kiss in her hair. “As you wish.”

He climbs to his feet slowly, adjusting his grip on her hand to help her up, and they remain linked as she leads him out of the living room and back up the stairs, extinguishing the fire with the flick of her wrist.

She settles herself back between the bedsheets, leaving the socks on, while he quickly readies himself for sleep. Minutes later, he switches off the lights and slides beneath the thick blanket, scooting over the mattress toward her, his stump gliding across her hip to rest on the swell of her stomach and his chest pressing to her shoulder blades. Emma sighs happily as he touches his lips to the back of her neck.

“Good night, my loves,” he mutters into her skin.

Emma smiles in the dark, her hand finding his stump and squeezing it affectionately. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”


	7. Family Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Here it is finally, @xhookswenchx, the last installment of your GFSS gift fic! I'm sorry this chapter took me so long to get to you. Real life has been kind of crazy this week, and I really appreciate your patience! I hope you've enjoyed this even half as much as I've enjoyed creating it for you. Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting, as always!

Christmas morning, Killian is the first to wake, pausing for a handful of golden minutes to savor the sensation of being ensconced in the warm world beneath their blanket, Emma in his arms and the baby beneath his stump. He focuses on syncing his breaths with Emma’s, which are telegraphed by the subtle, rhythmic movement of her shoulders and the gentle press of her back to his chest. They’ve had many mornings like this, but he never tires of them, of the serenity and the immeasurable comfort of being able to hold what matters most to him next to his heart uninterrupted.

He chuffs ruefully as his thoughts _are_ interrupted by a little tap from the baby. He grins and pulls his girls a little closer, and Emma sighs deeply in response.

“’Morning,” she murmurs, her voice gravelly with sleep.

Killian gives her a little squeeze. “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mm. S’alright.” He can hear her smile. “What time is it?”

He cranes his head upward to glimpse the clock on her nightstand. “Nearly eight,” he grunts.

Emma manages a deep yawn. “‘Kay.” She hums reluctantly. “We should probably get up soon if we want brunch ready by the time people start showing up.”

He buries his nose in her hair and breathes deep. “Aye. Pancakes or french toast?”

She snorts. “Like I’ll ever be able to eat french toast in front of my dad again.”** 

Killian laughs and nuzzles the back of her neck playfully. “Very well. Pancakes it is then.”

The sun is shining radiantly through the kitchen window when they make it downstairs, the whole world outside their home seeming to glow a little between the morning light and the reflective blanket of white snow on the ground. Emma decides to set the hearth crackling merrily for ambiance and turn her Christmas music on while Killian gets the coffee going. Working side by side, they succeed in prepping a large breakfast casserole and have started in on their second cup of coffee apiece by the time Henry comes thundering down the stairs in his sleep clothes, his face bright.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Kid,” Emma calls, shooting him a broad smile over her shoulder.

Killian salutes with his coffee mug. “Merry Christmas, Henry.”

The boy comes to investigate the food situation. “When do we eat?”

Emma chuckles and slides the casserole into the oven. “Really? Your first Christmas, and you’re still more interested in food than presents?”

Henry shrugs, reaching into a cabinet for a glass. “Stomach wants what the stomach wants, Mom,” he sighs cheerfully.

“Uh-huh.” She shakes her head, her mouth curled into a grin as she rolls her eyes and sets an egg timer ticking softly. “Well, grab a banana and tell your stomach we eat when everyone gets here in thirty.” She holds the timer up for emphasis before setting it down on the counter.

Henry pours himself some juice and chuckles, setting the carton down just in time to catch the banana Killian tosses him against his chest. “Fine. Presents then,” he agrees.

They gather around the tree, taking Emma’s lead as she settles herself cross-legged on the floor. The exchange and opening of presents doesn’t take too long given the small size of their family, but, having never really experienced mass gift-giving like this before, Killian soaks up every moment with as much, if not more enthusiasm than Henry. His face goes slack with delight when he sees the cordless sander Henry got him to help refinish and replace boards aboard the Jolly, but it’s the boy’s look of gratification at having made him happy that really makes Killian's heart swell.

When he unwraps Emma’s gift, shaking the colorful paper loose from the tip of his hook, Killian cocks his head and studies the pictures on the side of the heavy, glossy cardboard box with a blank smile. “What is it?”

Emma grins and rotates the box so the front faces him. “It’s a portable telescope,” she explains, tapping a finger on the image of a happy-looking father and his daughter using what is presumably the device in question to look at the night sky. “We can use it to do some _real_ stargazing out on the Jolly next summer.”

An enormous smile spreads across Killian’s face, and he curls his fingers around her chin and pulls her in for a quick kiss. “I’d like nothing better, Swan.”

Henry gets a couple of video games he’s been coveting and some of his favorite movies in DVD disc sets. He holds up the one small package that remains and gives it an experimental shake. “What’s this?” He makes short work of the wrapping and pulls the gleaming silver object out of its decorative wood case, its chain dangling to one side.

“It’s a bosun’s whistle,” Killian says. “You run the Jolly’s decks for me now, lad, and I know we don’t have much of a crew at present, but it’s traditional for every bosun to have a command whistle such as this.”

“Yes, Sir.” Henry blinks in awe and runs his thumb several times across the words that are cleanly engraved in the metal:

_Henry D. Mills_  
_The Jolly Roger_

He beams proudly. “Thanks.”

Emma opens her gift last, one large box from both himself and Henry, and nervousness begins to swirl in the pit of Killian’s stomach like a tempest as she digs into it and pulls items forth one by one. There’s her favorite scented bubble bath and lotion, more pairs of wooly socks, a new beanie, a gift certificate for the Three Bears Spa, and Henry’s homemade babysitting IOUs. She responds to each of these with predictable pleasure, but it’s when she spies the piece of paper at the bottom of the box and a curious wrinkle appears on her brow that Killian’s breath stalls in his chest.

“What’s this?” she asks, reaching in and pulling out the drawing. It’s a detailed sketch of a swan curving her neck around to rest her head upon the large feathers of a downward outstretched wing. A scroll in her beak reads “Emma.”

Killian clears his throat. “Um, if you like it, love, it’s going to be my new tattoo,” he explains shyly, scratching behind his ear. He gestures with his hook at the length of his right arm from just above his existing ink up to his shoulder.

She looks up at him, staring like a stunned doe, her eyebrows peaking in the middle of her forehead. “You… you want to get a new tattoo?”

“If you don’t object,” he says, nodding and smiling softly. “It’s just… So much of my life has changed. I have you and Henry and the baby and all of this now,” he explains, waving his hand at their home, “And this,” he taps his current tattoo with his hook, “this is part of my past, but it doesn’t reflect the man I am anymore.” He meets her shining gaze. “Or what gives me strength.”

His heart leaps at the way Emma’s eyes well up, relief and joy surging within him when she flings herself into his arms. Killian chuckles richly as they sway, stroking her hair while she sniffles into his shoulder. “Is that a yes then?” he asks.

She pulls back, arms still encircling his neck, and nods, flushed and tear-stained and slightly rumpled and unspeakably gorgeous.

“This is pretty cool,” Henry comments, examining the paper. “Hey Mom, can _I_ get a tattoo?”

Emma looks at her son, a smirk peeking through her watery smile. “I’m not the only mom you have to ask, you know,” she points out.

Henry’s face falls.

“Tell you what, lad,” Killian offers, grinning and smoothing his hand down Emma’s back as she wriggles around to sit side-by-side with him, “When you and your True Love have lost and found each other half a dozen times like everyone else in your family, perhaps your mothers will be more understanding.”

Henry rolls his eyes and huffs wryly. “Right.”

Emma’s parents arrive with Neal shortly thereafter, Regina on their heels. Per what has become their usual arrangement, David takes over the kitchen as head pancake chef, and Killian, Emma, and then Henry each take the opportunity to run upstairs for a succession of quick showers before everyone sits down to brunch. Cutlery clinks against plates, dishes are passed back and forth, and the conversation meanders between pleasant murmurs and bubbly laughter.

Everyone is admiring Henry’s new whistle when David’s and Emma’s phones suddenly ring simultaneously at a little after eleven. Six pairs of eyes swap knowing, wary looks while father and daughter check their screens.

“Leroy,” Emma breathes, glancing at David.

“Granny.”

They jump up and retreat to opposite corners of the kitchen like boxers on a break while Killian and the others try to listen in on both conversations.

“Leroy, slow down,” Emma urges, holding her phone an inch away from her ear and wincing, fingers bracing her temple with exasperation, the dwarf’s indistinguishable but panicked bellows audible to everyone in the room through the tiny phone speaker.

In the other corner, David frowns, turning away from them, phone over one ear and his free hand covering the other. “Did you just say the dogs are all barking?”

Regina lifts an eyebrow and sighs heavily, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Well, the peace was nice while it lasted,” she comments glibly.

Snow nods, finishing her drink.

David hangs up first and turns back toward them, resting his hands on the back of his chair, his features perturbed. “Granny says something seems to be bothering all the dogs in town. She can hear them barking everywhere.”

“Leroy and the other dwarves swear the ground is shaking down near the harbor,” Emma adds grimly, smoothing a hand over her belly. 

“You guys go,” Snow tells them, looking around. “I’ll clean up here and catch up with you after I take Neal down to the fairies.” She smiles as David leans down and deposits a quick kiss on her lips and the car keys in her hand.

Everyone is in motion then. Killian hands Emma her coat and hat before reaching for his own, David zips up, and Henry winds his scarf hastily around his neck. Regina tugs on her leather gloves and is the first to head out the door, followed by David and Henry. Killian and Emma bring up the rear, his brace at the small of her back and his hand snatching up his sheathed sword and sword belt from the umbrella stand by the door.

They emerge into the cold December day, their steps echoing softly over the porch floorboards.

“Sorry to interrupt Christmas, Kid,” Emma says apologetically.

Henry glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “It’s okay,” he puffs cheerfully, pausing and turning toward her. “Christmas is a time for family traditions, and this is kinda ours.”

Emma's face lights with pleasant surprise at his words, and she shares an amused look with Killian, who smirks devilishly as he finishes securing his belt. 

“He’s right, Swan,” he says. “What’s Christmas in Storybrooke without a little adventure?”

“Hey,” Regina yells at them from where she stands down below in the yard with David. “You three coming?”

Emma glances between Killian and Henry and grins. “Yeah,” she calls back resolutely, wrapping her fingers around the base of Killian’s hook. His smile widens when she looks up at him with that familiar, daring glint in her green eyes, heaving a deep breath and nodding briskly. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **see _When You Give a Pirate Some Sugar_


End file.
